Stunned
by Prophetic Fire
Summary: Commander Fox deals with the immediate aftermath of shooting ARC trooper Fives.


Fox can't move. Can't breathe. He sees Rex's mouth move, sees the strain in Rex's face as he shouts, but the words feel far away, muffled under a roar that surges through his head, pulling ice through his veins, dragging at his limbs, rooting him to the spot as it swirls in electric tingles across his skin. _"Call for help! We need a medic!"_ But Fox can't raise his arm, can't press the comm button. The trooper in Rex's arms reaches for Rex's shoulder, and Rex pulls him closer. The roar is too loud in Fox's ears, a ringing and a white noise all at once, and he can't hear what the trooper is whispering, can only stare at Rex's stricken face, and then Rex's broken voice–– _"Fives!"_ ––but it's still so distant, so heavy, like Fox is at the bottom of a deep pool, straining toward the surface. Dimly, he senses one of his guards take off their helmet, feels the rest of them move past him, circling around Rex and the trooper in his arms. The trooper with a 5 tattooed on his forehead. The trooper with a blaster bolt through his chest.

Fox doesn't move when General Skywalker approaches him, doesn't even flinch when he grabs the pistol from Fox's hands. The General is yelling at him, something about _"shoot first, ask questions later?!"_ and _"didn't have to be like this!"_ , the words sputtering out of him in a shaking rage. But Fox doesn't hear him. The air is pressing in on him, the edges of his vision hazing out parts of the room, which is suddenly tilting and tilting again, and then a jarring jolt which shudders up through his frame as his knee guards hit the cold durasteel. Shouting, more shouting, he thinks it's shouting–– _"Commander! Commander Fox!"_ ––and a flurry of movement around him, too close, too close and yet so far away, and he still can't breathe. Hands on his shoulders, his chest plate, the helmet being pulled from his head. Too many hands, too many bodies––no. Only one body. In front of him. Held in Rex's arms. With the 5 on his forehead and the blaster bolt through his chest.

Arms under his shoulders, and Fox is hauled to his feet, guided to a crate, eased down. Someone picks up his hands and wraps them around a canteen of water. Rys? Must be Rys. He brings the canteen to his face automatically. As the water slides down his throat, cool, cutting, the edges of the room crawl back into focus. The water goes down too fast; he coughs it back out in a spray. Rys' hand is on his shoulder again, steadying. _"Sir?"_ he hears, and the words come through clearly, the roar in his ears fading into an empty quiet, punctuated by hushed voices and shuffled footfalls. He waves his hand vaguely. _I'm fine,_ he wants to say, _just choking_. But he can't get the words out. Just choking. Just drowning. Just…

When the medics finally arrive, Fox has no idea how long he's been sitting there. Minutes? Hours? Does it even matter? They check him over, try to coax him up. _"You need to return to the medical bay."_ Fox finds his voice enough to croak out, "Few more minutes…" They leave him and walk across the room to a corner where Fox can't look, can't even acknowledge, a blacked-out spot in his vision that somehow presses too close even now. Bile threatens to creep up his throat, and he turns his back to the too-present void, fighting it down. A sudden snarl from behind–– _"Don't you touch him!"_ ––and the scrambling of feet and clatter of armor plates. _"No!"_ comes the snarl again, and then another voice, the General's voice, softer, almost breaking: _"Rex they have to take him."_ Silence then, except for the sound of something being laid on a gravstretcher. The stretcher comes into Fox's field of vision as the medics push it back toward the warehouse entrance, and he flinches away from it.

The voices and footfalls fade away as the other troops make their way back out the entrance. "Few more minutes," Fox says again, and they nod their understanding as they leave. Finally, it is completely silent. Fox takes another gulp of water and drags his hand across his face. He draws in a deep, shaky breath. His stomach flips again, the sensation crawling through his body.

A heavy plod of footfalls from behind makes him jump. Muscle memory takes over, and he's on his feet and reaching for his pistol before his brain can even comprehend the actions. His hands come up empty. They took his blasters, that's right. The sick feeling in his stomach deepens as he sees the figure he would have trained his pistol on if he'd had it. It's Rex. Rex, who looks into Fox's eyes with a burning fury and a bottomless sorrow. Fox tries to take another deep breath, only to have it catch somewhere in his throat.

"Captain," Fox manages to force out. "Didn't realize you were still…" He tries to find the words, but his mind is turning over and over just like his stomach.

Rex's piercing gaze never leaves Fox, and he doesn't answer. Fox's words hang in the air, stretching into a tighter and tighter silence. Fox feels it pulling at his skin. He stands there, nerves tensing with every passing moment, not even sure why he feels like he needs to fight or run. Finally, Rex opens his mouth and utters a word:

"Why?"

Fox had never known one word could carry so much meaning. Rex's tone is harsh, squeezed, broken, lost and pleading, venomous and demanding. It's pain and it's hatred and it's an order, and Fox is compelled to obey.

But the words don't come out right.

"Rex, I–– I didn't mean–– It wasn't supposed to––"

 _"Why?"_ Rex spits out again.

Fox scrambles for the words, tries to keep up with the thoughts that are suddenly racing, tumbling, tripping through his head, smashing bits of memory into a semblance of coherence at a speed that Fox can barely control.

"It–– It was–– I ordered my men to set it on stun; I though–– I had it, I _had_ it, I swear…"

Fox trails off. The words, spoken aloud, drain the momentum from his frantically stumbling mind. He tries to focus. _In the gunship––they were descending toward the warehouse––"We're closing in on the target; everyone get ready."––landing outside the warehouse––"Blasters on stun boys; this is one of our own."––the soft clicks of settings changing––had he done it? had he_ done _it?––the Captain and the General in the ray shield and the trooper waving his hands around like a madman––was his weapon on stun? when did he put it to stun?––the trooper reaching for a blaster––_

"Rex…"

The word leaves Fox's mouth in more of a whimper than he intended. His chest constricts sharply, and he sucks in a desperate breath. His eyes are hot, stinging, and they overflow as his knees give out and he plunges to the durasteel for a second time. His body shakes, and he lets the sobs tear themselves from his throat. Rex's form looms over him, but in a moment it joins him on the durasteel, and a strong embrace snakes its way around his shoulders, pulling him close.

"I didn't mean…" Fox stammers through the tears, "I wouldn't've…pulled the trigger…thought it was…stun… _sure_ it was…wouldn't've…Rex I killed him, I _killed a brother, **I**_ killed a brother…"

Rex's arms tighten around Fox, and Fox feels fingers stroke through his hair. But they're trembling, and the arms around him are trembling, and the voice next to his ear is trembling.

"I know, I know, I see now, you're okay Commander, I've got you, I see now, I know it hurts, it _hurts_ , you're okay Fox, you're okay, I understand now, you're okay…"

Fox shakes and shakes until his muscles feel wrung out. He slumps against Rex's pauldron, weak, empty. Again, he loses track of how long he stays there, but Rex doesn't move, doesn't pull away. Fox realizes absently that his face is a mess and it's smearing over Rex's armor. He shifts, straightens up, and only then does Rex relax his hold, as Fox moves to scrub at his face with both hands. The tension from before has eased away, and Fox sits beside Rex in a cathartic quiet.

After a time, Fox manages to find his voice again. It's a whisper, but it's there:

"Kriff, Rex, I'm so sorry."

Rex only nods. Fox gathers the courage to look Rex in the eyes, and he finds a soft compassion, edged with a weariness beyond their years.

A bitterness suddenly wells up in the back of Fox's throat. "How can you be so understanding?" he says. "If you had shot one of my men I'd be having you shipped back to Kamino. How can you just sit there and _accept_ this? I _killed a brother_ ; do you know what that's like?" Self-loathing crawls across Fox's skin.

Rex flinches at the comment, ever so slightly, and the weariness overtakes his expression. He casts his gaze to the floor. "I do," he murmurs, so quiet Fox can barely hear him. "Did you ever hear about the Umbara campaign?"

Fox's heart skips. That word is...evil. "I heard stories, rumors, rogue Jedi, brothers tricked into murdering each other…"

When Rex turns his gaze toward Fox again, Fox regrets every word he's just said.

"Kriff, Rex, I'm…"

Rex sighs.

After a moment, Rex speaks again. "Fives was there too. Special assignment." He pauses. "I almost let him be executed."

Fox watches Rex take in a steadying breath.

"I…really did fail him, didn't I?"

Fox reaches out, grasps Rex's upper arm. Emotions he can't even name pour through him, chasing each other back and forth. Sad, bitter, empathetic, angry, forgiving, shameful, they're a jumble and Fox doesn't know which one he's supposed to feel. "Fives was a good soldier, right?"

Rex nods.

Fox knows what he has to do. He's not even sure why, whether it will satisfy some kind of closure for Rex or act as a benediction for him or something else entirely, and he's not sure what outcome he's supposed to want. But he knows what he has to do.

"Tell me about him."


End file.
